My mom loves us, loves to make us beautiful, make my sister and me into one girl— a pageant of Persia. “Murder me if this is all it takes to make me beautiful” —Iranian proverb, only used by women My mom loves us, loves to make us beautiful, make my sister and me into...
My husband wants to know why the line is always broken. I say the poem is made of words, but the words are not the poem. The words are the way in. The broken lines are openings. I remember how his skin turned gold under a streetlight the first time he took off his...
We polish our big bellies with creams, we henna Eden vines on them, we Buddha rub them, as do strangers, for wealth. In birth class they tell us your body was made for this. They tell us your mothers were strapped down and drugged. We are capable of doing so...